


AKA Male Ponies

by perfectlystill



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She's not looking forward to ballooning or aching all over or peeing every five minutes, and she's not convinced her morning sickness isn't alcohol withdrawal, but back rubs and ice cream seem like perks. She'll weigh the pros and cons later.</i>
</p><p>Jessica and Luke have a baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	AKA Male Ponies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delightfulalot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delightfulalot/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Samantha! I hope you have a great one, and I hope you enjoy this more than you would have enjoyed any awful attempts I'd have made to learn about Hockey RPF.

"I'm pregnant." 

Trish narrows her eyes. "Seriously?"

"No," Jessica responds. 

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Trish leans against the counter, weight on her elbows. With Trish's eyebrows tilted toward each other and her pursed mouth, with the confused skepticism in her eyes, Jessica's shoulders begin to tighten. 

"I'm more fucking maternal than you are." 

Trish tilts her head. A soft hum. She doesn't protest. 

 

 

Luke massages her shoulders and neck, hands kneading at her skin in a way that hurts just enough to feel good.

There's a new disaster at Seattle Grace, and Jessica enjoys watching the mayhem unfold. Meredith's face set, tears she's bound to let out by the end of the hour brimming underneath the surface. There's something about this show that makes her feel better, and Jessica's not really interested in analyzing the reasons why. Malcolm likes support groups and therapy, and Trish pushes toward action in a way that is healthier than Jessica's varying need to do nothing or do something alone -- Trish is more of a proper hero than Jessica will ever be. Luke's understanding is closer, something akin to survival. But he's steadier than Jessica is. She thinks maybe they heal in the same way; he just heals faster.

She's sure any of them could spew a handful of reasons why she likes watching _Grey's Anatomy_ , but really, Jessica just likes watching doctors have sex.

"Think Meredith will die?" Luke asks after the cut to commercial. His thumb presses into bone at the top of her spine, and she doesn't flinch.

"No."

"I don't mean permanently. Like that episode where she drowns but is okay at the end."

Jessica starts to feel loose with Luke's hands warm on her skin and his legs pressed against hers as she sits between them. She hopes pregnancy means more back rubs. She's not looking forward to ballooning or aching all over or peeing every five minutes, and she's not convinced her morning sickness isn't simply alcohol withdrawal, but back rubs and ice cream seem like perks. She'll weigh the pros and cons later.

"That episode doesn't make any sense," she says.

"You're an expert on things that make sense now?" It's teasing. She doesn't turn around to see if there's a smart smirk on his face.

"Whatever." She splays her hands over his knees, feels him splay his hands over her shoulders in turn. "Let's have sex after this. I'll blow you if Meredith dies."

 

 

The chair wobbles as she reaches for the smoke detector, pressing the button in the middle and twisting it off. The incessant screaming stops, but the ringing in Jessica's ears remains. She squats, hand resting against the table as she steps down.

There's some smoke, but she thinks the damn thing was overreacting. The bacon in the pan has crisped up, black around the edges making its way toward the center. It smells good, and she tries to stick her fork in one of the pieces, fishing it out of the pan, but it falls off and splatters grease against the stove and countertop. 

"Everything okay?" Luke asks. He's leaning against the doorway, sleep still in his eyes.

"Absolutely." Jessica smiles, pokes at the bacon again and manages to finagle it onto the fork. 

"That's burnt." He rubs at his head, walking over to the stove to inspect her breakfast. "You can't eat this. It's all carcinogens."

Jessica pulls the bacon off the fork and bites it in half. "Mmm, cancer."

He shakes his head, grabs the pan and drops all its contents -- grease included -- into the trashcan. Jessica stuffs the rest of the piece of bacon she managed to save into her mouth and watches as he starts over, turning the stove-top on and carefully laying new strips into the pan. It sizzles. "You want something else? Toast? Eggs?"

"Gross." She grimaces before looking into the pan. "Extra crispy, please." Jessica stands on her tiptoes and presses a kiss against his cheek. "Give me as many carcinogens as I'm allowed."

She sits at the small table, the chair rickety, and she leans on her elbow to keep it steady. She watches Luke cook her bacon, put a few slices of bread in the toaster for himself, and ask if the smell of eggs will make her throw up ("I wouldn't risk it."). He pours himself a bowl of cereal, and Jessica takes a spoonful before it gets soggy. It's nice, and it's normal, and she thinks about that just enough to appreciate it and not long enough to jinx it.

Luke is the steadiest person she knows. He's going to be a great father.

Jessica still has trouble believing she could make anything good, but she can't believe Luke could make anything bad, so the kid will probably be okay. A relatively quiet life, an Aunt Trish and an Uncle Malcolm, two parents who love it. Normal. 

Luke sets the bacon down in front of her. It's crisp, and she would like it a little more burnt, but she supposes it'll do. "Do you think we should get married?" she asks.

A nosy client made a comment the other day, despite going through a divorce herself, about how a child needs two parents, about the security marriage brings. It sounded like a load of bull at the time, and Jessica had rolled her eyes and told her to "mind your own business, lady," but the thought still itches at the back of her mind. Luke is gorgeous, and good, and he loves her more than Jessica knows what to do with. It's not the worst idea.

He takes a sip of coffee, eyeing her over the rim of the cup before setting it down, gaze focused and serious. Jessica presses her mouth into a thin line and does not look away. "I think," Luke starts, "I would love to marry you. But not because we're having a kid."

"Right." Jessica swallows, pinching a piece of bacon between her thumb and forefinger and exerting enough force to crack it in half. "You're right. It's a dumb expectation."

"Also, for next time, your proposal could use some work." He smiles, and Jessica rolls her eyes, but she can feel the upward curve of betrayal on her lips.

 

 

"Why is everything pink?" Trish asks, thumbing through a rack of discounted onesies. "You're having a girl, not a _My Little Pony_." She frowns. "Wait, are there male ponies?" Turning abruptly to the other rack, she starts looking through the boy side.

Jessica furrows her brow. "I don't know. Who cares? I just want to find something that doesn't look like a Disney movie threw up on it."

Trish nods and continues looking, grabbing things from both racks. She wanted to go someplace nicer, only giving in when Jessica pointed out the baby would outgrow this stuff every other week.

"So, if I die," Jessica starts, grabbing a plain pair of grey baby pants off the wall -- the material feels a lot like leggings. She wonders if anyone bothered to tell babies they're not allowed to wear leggings as pants.

"You're not going to die in childbirth, Jesus."

"First of all, you don't know that. This could be the strongest, most unbreakable baby ever. It could tear my insides to shreds. But what I was going to say, was if I did, and in some apocalyptic scenario Luke died too, would you like ... want it?" Jessica stretches the material of the pants between her fingers before throwing them into her basket. "Trish?"

When she looks up, Trish's face has gone soft, eyes trained on Jessica, her hand frozen on the rack. "I'd be honored."

Half of Jessica's mouth tilts up and she swallows around a lump in her throat. "Thank you."

 

 

She runs the roller up the wall. The motion becomes rhythmic, and the faint sound of the infomercials playing on the TV in the next room add to the feeling, Jessica's head going blank as she coats the walls with the light blue paint she and Luke agreed upon. Luke promised Malcolm he could sponge on clouds later, and Jessica knows that also means they're going to end up with a smiling sun painted in the corner. 

She can't reach to the ceiling, and instead of dragging a chair in to stand on, she leaves a border of beige around the room. She's a roller's width further than halfway done when she hears the front door open.

"You started without me," Luke says.

"Needed something to do to stay up," Jessica offers over her shoulder.

Before she got pregnant, if she wasn't working a case and didn't feel like sitting at the bar before Luke closed up, Jessica used to stay awake doing research or watching TV, offering him a beer and an already opened box of cookies -- Chips Ahoy or Oreoes or Keebler Fudge -- when he returned. She'd pour herself a glass of whiskey, because even though she's curbed her drinking, she learned to like the taste and the burn down her throat, and it helped her sleep. He'd tell her any stories about the drunks, and she'd mention the cheaters or the missing persons or the woman who asked to see if her neighbor stole her cat. 

During her first trimester, Jessica would try to stay up, taking naps at 10 or 11. But she was exhausted all the time, and would often settle for a note on the cookies: _Save some for me._ She has more energy now, a baby bump that causes old women with short, curling grey hair and the smell of baby powder wafting off their skin to ask if they can touch it ("No."), and a back that's starting to ache so consistently she forgets what it was like when it didn't hurt. But her sleep schedule is fucked, as much as someone who used to regularly stay up until 4 A.M. can say that, and if she doesn't find something to get up and do, she'll fall asleep before Luke closes the bar.

Luke's the one to pull up a chair and paint the top part of the wall Jessica left blank, even though he has to hunch so his head doesn't hit the ceiling. "More control," he explains, when Jessica says he should just ditch the chair.

 

 

"What about Patricia?" he asks, picking at the chow mein noodles with chopsticks.

Jessica groans. "No. Trish would never let me live it down."

"Would be fun." Luke smiles, eyes bright.

Jessica forcefully presses her toes against his thigh. "What if we just never named this kid? Let the kid name herself."

"We'd end up with a daughter named Elmo."

"I'm not seeing the problem." Jessica shoves as much broccoli beef into her mouth as she can manage. Her cravings have taken a turn toward the healthy, and while the broccoli stalks don't quite do it for her like apples with peanut butter, it's pretty close. "If she hates her name, then it's her own fault."

"Mufasa it is."

"That's even better than Elmo."

They've had this conversation a handful of times, thought about naming their daughter after their mothers, and after Luke dismissed the idea, Jessica agreed: "Too _Leave it to Beaver_. Beaver though, there's potential there." He's written ideas on post-it notes and stuck them to her desk: Hannah, Taraji, Anita, a bunch of names that Trish later tells her have to do with grace. She's sent texts with ideas: Morgan, Audrey, Tilda, Jessica Jr. -- the last a joke Luke ran with longer than he should have. Robin poked her head in once to suggest naming the kid after herself, seeing as it has good gender-neutral potential. Nothing's stuck yet.

"What do you think," Luke begins, voice going quiet, "about Reva?"

Jessica blinks. Her first thought is: _No way in hell._ She can't imagine calling her daughter Reva every day, a sufficient reminder of the horrible things she has done and is still trying to forgive herself for.

She's stopped asking Luke why he's with her because he's one of the best things that has ever happened to her, he's a grown man who can make his own decisions, and the fondness in his voice was starting to drift toward frustration when she told him he deserved better. He's forgiven her, and he's been good to her. She's grateful, and Jessica has stopped looking the gift horse in the mouth. Luke keeps a picture of Reva in the medicine cabinet instead of framed on the coffee table. Jessica thinks he does that for her, although she's not sure what typical protocol for dead ex-wives is for normal people, either. 

"I don't think so," is what she settles on, tongue heavy in her mouth.

His eyes are still on her, and she has to look down, look into her takeout container and move the broccoli beef around with no intention. She's not hungry anymore. "Think about it. Please."

"Okay," Jessica lies. "I'll think about."

 

 

They decide on Hope.

It's a pretty name, a reminder for Jessica that doesn't make her want to down a bottle of whiskey, and she tells Luke it's not quite Grace, but it's close. He smiles and presses a kiss against her temple. "It's perfect," he says.

 

 

Jessica's lying on her back, a faint twinge of pressure from the baby in her spine. The sun slants through the blinds, and her hair sticks to her forehead. Luke's got one hand on her face, right by her ear and under her jaw where she's broken out -- she's blaming it on pregnancy hormones -- and the other skimming her inner thigh. His mouth is firm, and she bites hard on his bottom lip. Desire coils inside her and she squirms, nails digging into his shoulder blades.

He smiles against her mouth and moves his hand, thumb running between her folds.

"Stop teasing," Jessica says.

His returning laugh is deep and echoes along her skin as he kisses the corner of her mouth, the base of her neck, her right breast, teeth dragging softly over her nipple. He doesn't waste time on her hip, and Jessica spreads her legs, lets Luke smile against her cunt.

Luke has always been more than willing to go down on her, but as she's gotten bigger, as comfortable positions dwindle, it's become more frequent. His mouth is warm, and he runs his thumb along the underside of her knee, makes her shiver. She comes faster now, too, whether it's the hormones or the fact that's she's always already swollen, Jessica has no idea.

"Fuck," she exhales, clawing at him so he'll come back, so she can kiss him again.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs against her mouth, soft, hand brushing the hair off her forehead.

When he looks at her, she doesn't look away.

 

 

Trish brings a stroller and a baby gym to whatever version of a baby shower she insists Jessica have. "So she can get ready for training," Trish says, tapping on the baby gym's box. "She's going to be just like her Aunt Trish."

"Yeah," Jessica mumbles around a mouthful of the carrot cake Claire dropped off before her shift at the hospital -- under normal circumstances, Jessica would not stand having a cake with a vegetable in it in her apartment, but her pregnancy taste buds are still the only part of her that's ever been on a health kick. "I guess that wouldn't be so bad."

Malcolm brings a mobile for the crib: "It looks a lot like the baby gym, but it's not."

Robin stops by with a couple packs of diapers, and Jessica glares at Malcolm during the five minute lecture she experiences on baby hygiene before Luke kindly leads Robin out by her shoulders after sticking a slice of cake onto a paper plate. "We appreciate the advice, and thanks for coming," he says, pushing her out the door, closing it and locking it behind her. 

"Why did you tell her?" Jessica asks.

Malcolm shrugs. "She's annoying, but she's got good intentions."

Luke gives Jessica a fancy assortment of liquors for after the birth. "You do know my taste isn't that refined, right?" she asks, running her hand over the label of a Casa Noble tequila. "I'm an alcoholic."

His mouth quirks up. "I'm a bartender. I can't have a baby with a woman who drinks Jack Daniels."

"Too late." Jessica scrunches up her nose, smiling. "And who knows, maybe I'll be sober after this."

Malcolm snorts, Trish wacks his arm, and Jessica rolls her eyes.

 

 

Exhaustion pulses behind her forehead. The first snowfall of the season the night before left the streets and sidewalks thick and slushy, and Jessica can't feel her nose. Her bones hurt like they would if she broke them all, as though the nonexistent cracks can predict changes in weather. She spent her night playing mediator between a philandering client and his philandering husband, and, as it turns out, Jessica is an awful mediator. Shocking.

Luke is already home and asleep, lying on his back in their bed, and Jessica likes that she can depend on that.

She drops her coat on one of the bedposts and toes off her boots. One of them hits the bedframe and makes a thump, but Luke doesn't stir. Jessica heads to the bathroom, carefully closing the door before flipping on the light. She splashes cold water onto her face even though her skin feels like it's shrunk, and she brushes her teeth too hard. A dentist told her once she'd wear out her gums, but she's always thought scrubbing would get her mouth cleaner, and she's always been someone who picks at a scab.

Jessica opens the medicine cabinet.

There's no reason for it: her lotion is under the sink, and she always forgets to put it on until her knuckles crack, and her skin usually heals fast enough that it doesn't bother her. She's not going to take an aspirin, and she takes her prenatal vitamins in the morning. But she opens the medicine cabinet anyway, maybe because her brain is foggy with cold, and Reva's picture stares at her like it always does.

Jessica's heartbeat jumps, and she takes a deep breath, looks at the woman's face, and closes the cabinet. She shimmies out of her pregnancy jeans that are less denim than they should be, pees, washes her hands less vigorously than she knows she should, and crawls into bed.

She doesn't fit into Luke's side like she used to, belly too large. She shakes him lightly. "Hey," she whispers. "Her middle name."

When he blinks, she repeats: "Middle name."

"What?" he asks, wrapping his arm around her as best he can.

"Reva," she says, and the sound of it coming out of her mouth almost makes her flinch. "For her middle name."

Luke blinks a few more times, and she can see the clarity in his eyes when he processes what she's saying. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yeah." She nods.

"Thank you." His voice is wet, partly, she thinks, with sleep. He presses a kiss to her eyebrow. "I love you."

 

 

Jessica's water breaks while she's eating a salad. Her thought process is _Ew_ , and then _Maybe I'll never have to eat a salad again _, and then a mixture of panic and excitement sets in. Luke is out grocery shopping, and she calls him, waits until he arrives, and then calls a cab -- initially she thought they'd take the subway, because one of the best things about being pregnant is people giving up their seats for her, but Luke vetoed the idea as ridiculous: "Have you ever seen a woman in labor on the subway? What if the subway breaks down? You are not giving birth in a subway car."__

There's a knot in Jessica's stomach, but her fear is closer to paralysis, more calming than anything. She moves slowly and methodically, decidedly focusing on getting to the hospital and not how she is actually going to be responsible for another human being in less than 24 hours.

Luke and Trish join her in the delivery room. Malcolm brings Robin to wait with outside, and Jessica mumbles that soon she'll have to let Malcolm know that while he can stand her nutty ramblings and restless eyes, Jessica does not like her, they are not friends, and she is not part of her life.

The staff gives her drugs, but not enough, and she spends a few hours complaining. "Can't you just knock me out?" she asks the doctor. The doctor tells her she's too far along for a C-section she doesn't technically need. She squeezes Luke's hand instead, grunting and sweating through the contractions. Trish tries to hold Jessica's other hand before gritting out: "Are you trying to break all my fingers?" and pulling it away with enough force for Jessica to get the hint that she should let go. Jessica feels about as gross as she's ever felt in her life, which is saying a lot considering she didn't wash her hair or bathe for over two weeks a few years ago. 

For all her worries about this baby murdering her with superstrength, and for having Claire on speed-dial in case something went terribly wrong, the birth is remarkably average, and Hope's cries feel a lot like relief.

 

 

"I'm glad she looks like you," Jessica tells Luke the first time she holds Hope.

"She has your nose," he points out.

"That's how I know you didn't cheat on me with Robin."

 

 

Trish tells her Reva means to regain strength, and Jessica works on not letting guilt consume her, focuses on the joy in Luke's eyes when their daughter's full name is written under her picture and taped to the refrigerator. 

_Hope Reva Cage, January 5, 2018, 11:14 P.M., 8 lbs and 10 oz._

 

 

Hope has small, soft tuffs of black hair. She makes little happy noises that come out of her mouth with spit-bubbles. She smells like baby, and Jessica didn't realize that was its own unique scent until now. She likes lying on the sofa with Hope on top of her. She does this in the quiet, television off, focusing on breathing in and out steadily. She loves Hope. She's wonderful, and when Luke says, "She's smart," Jessica agrees, even though she isn't sure how she knows. 

While Jessica much prefers the newborn to pregnancy -- she knows there are women who love being pregnant, but Jessica found it mildly irritating -- she didn't realize there would be a constant flood of blood exiting her already torn vagina. Claire assures her it is very normal, and Jessica wishes this were something her powers would help with. They don't.

She also didn't realize she'd be even more tired than she already was.

Hope does not sleep through the night. Ever. By four months most babies do, but Hope always finds something to cry about. Sometimes she's hungry, sometimes she needs her diaper changed, and sometimes she's just being a little shit.

"She's got your personality," Luke says.

Jessica frowns. "Bullshit, I'm not a crier."

(Malcolm told her once not to swear around the baby, and Jessica had said: "She can't fucking understand the shit I'm saying."

"There are studies that say they process language like we do, even if they don't understand it yet. And they learn by listening to you."

"Maybe Hope's first word will be asshole.")

Jessica tries to take care of her most nights. She's a lighter sleeper than Luke is, and she's more accustomed to lack of it, and sometimes when he manages to blink the sleep away before she's up, he'll say: "I got her" with a quick squeeze to Jessica's hand. And he's always telling her to wake him up when she's got dark circles under her eyes in the morning and is on her third cup of coffee, but Jessica likes rocking Hope in the middle of the night, when the moon is bright and everything is quiet. She likes when Hope settles down peacefully and breathes warmly against her collarbone. She likes crawling back into bed next to Luke, the same peaceful look on his face, the same warmth. 

There's a night almost five months in -- Hope four months and 23 days old. Jessica's still keeping count. She's _that_ annoying Mom, but at least she isn't telling people while she's in line at the bodega around the corner -- when she's been up with Hope for just over two hours, and she's finally sleeping in her crib. Jessica crawls back into bed, and Luke's awake. He brushes some hair off her forehead.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

She blames the exhaustion: "I've never been happier." Jessica means it, and she presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. She kisses him again before tucking her head underneath his chin.

"I love you, too." Luke wraps his arm around her.

Another perk of not being pregnant: she fits against him again.


End file.
